


Burdened with Glorious Purpose

by Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise



Series: Burdened with Glorious Purpose [3]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise/pseuds/Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise
Summary: In a gray world of foiled ambition and lies, what defines a hero? What is truth, and can redemption be found in the ashes of nobility?Thor 2 through Loki's POV with some canon-compliant additions :)





	Burdened with Glorious Purpose

Chains. Chains on his future as a child; chains on his mind as an adult. Now chains on his body as well. Was he destined to live in prison? Out of one incarceration and into another? They were heavy, clinked with each step. A collar around his neck, around his waist, and shackles on his wrists and ankles. Two more chains were fastened to the belt, and the ends of these were gripped by the guards that followed. Was he always to be on a leash? Odin, Thor, Thanos—and now he had come full circle.

At the end of the room, Odin was seated on the throne. It was strange. Although it seemed a lifetime had passed, Asgard hadn't changed at all. The grim and lofty figure was the same as it had always been.

His mother, though.

“Loki.” Betrayal and disappointment were written boldly on her face.

A heartbeat.

He could tell her.

He could tell them.

He could tell them of Thanos, and the scepter—he could go back to his history with Thor and the information that had driven the start of the whole ordeal. He could confess everything, beg for forgiveness...

But could he really, now? As the wound he had inflicted was raw and throbbing?

His heart melted. He was a prisoner again, trapped behind the walls he'd assembled for his first facade and again behind those of the creature Thanos had made.

“Hello, mother,” he said. “Have I made you proud?”

“Please, don't make this worse.”

“Define worse.”

Odin called for silence, that he would speak with him alone. Frigga stepped back. Loki advanced and brought his heels together in mock attention.

His knees trembled and his eyes stung, and he laughed for fear of crying. “I really don't see what all the fuss is about.” He had played this performance since Svartalfheim, and the reprise on Midgard. He would bring it back for a bitter encore. His composure evened. His knees stopped shaking. He was collected, cool, witty, utterly unruffled. Maybe even devilishly satisfied.

“Do you really not feel the gravity of your crimes?” asked Odin.

“I went down to the people of Midgard to rule them as a benevolent god...just like you.”

“We are not gods. We are born, we live, we die—just as humans do.”

He nodded. “Give or take five thousand years.” Heat stung his eyes. He blinked a few times. Was this the subject of the conversation now? Lifespans? Could the man not see his hypocrisy? Could he not at least try to consider through his eyes?

“And all this because Loki desires a throne.”

His jaw tightened. “It is my birthright,” he spat. Lies. Air. This third stage of the act was carried without the scepter; carried on his own deception, fabricated from his own self. Barbs in his heart with each wretched falsehood.

“Your birthright was to die,” said Odin.

Desired the throne? If he had desired the throne, he would have used the all-too-willing Jotun to kill Odin while he lay helpless in Odinsleep, use the announcement to crown himself king and summon Thor back from Midgard, send the enraged Thor and the Warriors Three on a “noble” suicide mission to Jotunheim where they would kill Laufey and be themselves killed in a subsequent ambush, leaving the Jotun without a leader; Loki would step in, take control, and have kingship over two realms. Midgard had been devastated by both Asgardian and Jotun armies; under their combined attack it would shatter, yielding another crown. With the might of three realms, he could stand against Thanos, take the Tesseract...

“If I had not taken you in, you would not be here now, to hate me.”

Face to face, they were worlds apart. And atop of everything—atop the lies, the hatred--Odin thought so little of him as to think he would employ so idiotic a plan. In his eyes he was the stupid runt, sulking over perceived injustice and inflicting violent tantrums at random. 'Oh, my brother shall be crowned! I'll send a pointless attack to disrupt the ceremony so it can happen on another day.' 'Oh, a ridiculously powerful tyrant has given me a temporary army so I can fetch him an even bigger army. I'll do what he wants so I can borrow a ruined realm towards which I never held any ambition. He probably won't simply crush me and reclaim it with his limitless power in the end!'

“If I'm for the axe, then for mercy's sake just...swing it.” Even the most collected, cool, witty, utterly unruffled people could grow weary.“It's not that I don't love our little talks, it's just...I don't love them.”

“Frigga is the only reason you are still alive, and you will never see her again. You will spend the rest of your days in the dungeons.”

The chains tugged, and he stumbled backwards. Shattering sorrow, numbness, surging anger. Everything that had happened, and now back to the beginning? Half-wit Thor on the throne an an army on the doorstep—except this time it was the army of Thanos, and the chains were physical.

“And what of Thor?” He stopped, blinked twice, jerked down a swallow. “You will make that witless oaf king while I rot in chains?”

“Thor must strive to undo the damage you have done; he will bring order to the Nine Realms. And then, yes, he will be king.”  
A flood of injustice and futility. Thor was not ready. Thor was not suited—he didn't have any desire to become king. Rough hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him back.

But the monster they thought he was couldn't cry.

 

His mother had taken every care to have his cell comfortably furnished and well-stocked with things to occupy him. Food and drink; books. Puzzles. Pen and paper.

The first days were the worst. How could it be this way? Hadn't he tried to do everything right? Was there no forgiveness? Cruel world, in which deviation outweighed the noble endeavor! And what of Thor? Thor, who had wreaked such pain in his younger years? Perhaps he had changed. Perhaps he was a new man. But even so, how came he such a gilded life despite his wretched past? It was unjust. Odin had lied to him. Thor had abused him. And now he would live in scorn for the rest of his lengthy life.

But as time passed, this segued into a different notion.

In the end, he was responsible for his actions. Memories seeped back of his time under Thanos. He had stared face to face at the ugliness within his soul and allowed it to overcome him. Was he truly that hideous thing he had seen under the Titan's control, that caricature of evil?

The more his voice played back in his ears, the more his actions played over and over, the more his own self was evident as the source. Thanos had a hand in it; the stone had a hand in it. But ultimately it was his own darkness that he had fed, his own desires he had tried to satisfy like itching a persistent scratch. Days stretched by in silence and shame. A smothering pit of guilt, his personal corner of Hel—and it had only been a single month. He slept often. But sleep ceased to be a solace as days passed, for vivid memories of torture and life under Thanos seized his dreams.

He sat in the chair, reading, re-tracing words as his mind wandered. The sound of his own breathing was acutely audible, acutely distracting. He shook his head and leaned forward, closed his eyes; took a breath, sighed, re-started again. 

_Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood_   
_Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather_   
_The multitudinous seas incarnadine,_   
_Making the green one red.*_

He snorted, softly. "All hail, Loki, thou shalt be king hereafter,"* he whispered. How bitter came the words. He squeezed his eyes shut, bowed his head.

“Loki.”

He jumped and whirled. It was the first time he had heard a voice in over a month.

Frigga stood before him holding a cloth-wrapped bundle.

Loki rose, slowly.

Her expression was inscrutable. Then she held it out.

He took it, and she nodded. He pulled back the first wrapping and the neck of a violin was exposed. He stopped. She wore a faint smile.

Loki laughed in disbelief. “How came you by this?”

“I kept it.”

He undid the rest of the wrappings and dropped them on the ground. It was beautiful, made of shiny dark wood.

With a flick of her hand the bow appeared. She held it out and he took it.

He shook his head with a smirk. “Odin said no son of his would become a jester.”

“You're not a jester, and that's no longer his concern. He doesn't even know I'm here. Not even Heimdall does.”

“They'll figure it out if I play.”

“No. I taught you better than that.”

A moment of reminiscence; warm memories, studying under her teaching. His heart bled as he thought of the rift between them now. “Loki...when I was young, I took such joy in music. They called me the Nokk of the Court. Even though—even though we took you in, I always hoped that I could foster the same gift in you. And now not even Odin can stop you. What further punishment can you receive?”

“I shall need a teacher,” he said, softly.

Her holographic fingers traced his face. “I cannot help you, my son.”

He swallowed tightly.

“But I can give you books. And don't be discouraged at the sound when you begin.” She smiled. “Though I know that wouldn't stop you. You always were my most persistent child.” Her face darkened and his heart clenched.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You can still return. I can't take you out of prison. In your heart I think you know your incarceration is just. But accept your crime and let yourself be forgiven. Come back to me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I will take you back.”

His eyes stung and his face heated. “You don't know what I am.”

“Loki, I watched it happen. Hugin and Munin were with you. Thor was with you. I saw everything--”

“Not everything, mother. You don't know what I saw in myself.”

“I saw it acted out. I think I have an idea.”

He shook his head. “No.” A tear slipped down his cheek.

Her lips twitched. “Then come when you are ready,” she said. “But if you can...please come soon.”

Her holograph disappeared.

His fingers were clenched. When he unwrapped them from their white-knuckle hold on the instrument, the strings had left dark grooves in his left-hand fingers. He gripped it again. This instrument, reminiscent of happiness long gone and never again. Indecision. He lifted it—then he hugged it to his chest and dropped back into the chair.

It was something to do, an escape from numbness and books he'd read and puzzles he'd solved and white walls and silence. On the first days he played it until his fingers bruised, bled. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day in, day out, playing, playing...

The initial grating squeal became almost like music. Some times were better than others. Occasionally the sound was almost sweet, and brought a sense of accomplishment; joy re-entered the cell. Sometimes nothing he did could coax a proper sound and he fell back into frustration.

When his mind was clouded, his technique faltered; and as time passed, he stopped playing. He couldn't focus enough to read. The puzzles were solved. Food was tasteless and sleep held nightmares.

Apathy gave way to bitterness, and gradually the lies he had fought for so long spread roots through his mind. Maybe the identity he had created on Svartalfheim was the real one. Maybe the words he had spoken were true. Maybe the soul he had been; the soul who had cared, the soul who had sacrificed itself for love of beauty and justice...maybe that was the facade. 

His mother visited now and again as a hologram, and his bitter heart was shamed by her hopeful sorrow. Part of him knew that he could return; if not from the physical cell, from the mental. The chains he wore now were of his own stubbornness. But coming back was painful. Coming back meant admitting wrongs and becoming vulnerable again. He had been vulnerable before, and he had been crushed. So his increasingly harsh temperament became his shield and the accusing lies his identity.

Something was happening abroad, though. A steady stream of prisoners had been arriving, and by the looks of them they came from different realms. Not that it was of any interest. The seconds continued their march regardless.

His mother's visits had been growing less frequent as his disposition soured. Part of him donned the wretched feeling like a cloak, while the other loathed himself for it.  
One such day they stood in silence.

The dungeon doors opened and a new parade of prisoners entered. Loki stood and watched, hands clasped behind his back. “Odin continues to bring me new friends. How thoughtful.”

“The books I sent—do they not interest you?”

Loki turned. “Is that how I am to while away eternity? Reading?”

“I've done everything in my power to make you comfortable, Loki.”

“Have you?” He leaned forward, put his hands on the small table. “Does Odin share your concern?”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Does Thor?” he continued. “It must be so inconvenient, their asking after me day and night.”

“You know full well it was your actions that brought you here.”

“My actions?” Loki straightened, paced slowly. “I was merely giving truth to the lie that I've been fed my entire life—that I was born to be a king."

“A king? A true king admits his faults. What of the lives you took on Earth?”

“A mere handful compared to the number that Odin had taken himself.”

“Your father--”

Loki whirled. “He's not my father!” he shouted.

A pause.

“And am I not your mother?”

Guilt. He exhaled. She had been his only friend; his confidant, his mentor, his teacher. And yet even she was flawed, even as he was flawed. He sighed, blinked twice. “You're not.”

She shook her head slightly, then smiled and came forward. “Always so perceptive, about everyone but yourself.”

Loki dropped his gaze, shook his head. His shields were useless. She saw through them. She called his bluff, reproached his self-pity and divided his soul from its thorny shrouds of safety—all with a look of loving kindness. He came forward and reached for her outstretched hands. Her illusory fingers shimmered and his hands passed through them. The holograph faded, her sad, hopeful gaze still meeting his.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

She still held hope for him, even as he rebuffed her again and again.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe he had done wrong; maybe he was what they said. But even so, maybe that didn't matter. Maybe now was a turning point. He would remain in prison. But she believed in him, and she saw goodness deep inside. And he had felt the ache of that goodness—its agony at being smothered under hate. Maybe it wasn't too late, even for him.

A spark of hope.

That evening, he played his violin.

The next day began differently. There was a sense of well-being as he woke. It would be difficult...it would hurt. But he would try, for her.

He read and was able to focus.

Focused so well that it wasn't until the white noise outside had grown into a roar that he looked up from his book. Prisoners ran, shouting, guards dead and a hulking beast among them smashing down the cell barriers with its fists.

Loki looked back to his book. He turned the page.

Then the thing stood before his cell.

It was human in shape, armored, well over seven feet tall, with a savage distorted face and curling horns like a ram's.

A moment passed in silence.

It was odd, their stare-down. Loki half-smiled. “Up the stairs, to the left.”

The creature exited.

The directions were meaningless and the creature probably didn't understand, but it seemed somewhat humorous at the time.

Loki returned to his book, but a coil of worry churned within.

For a long time there was no hint of what transpired without. He sat by the window, turned pages, but found himself re-reading the same sections. Hours had passed. Perhaps he was irrational to think he would be given any news of what had happened; he was, after all, just a prisoner. But still the unease persisted.  
A guard approached and stopped before the cell. Loki looked up from his book and his heart chilled. The man didn't move, but his face said everything. After a moment Loki nodded.

Frigga was dead.

He set the book on the footrest and rose. Blood pulsed against his eardrums and his vision swam. He walked slowly to the center of the cell, clenched his fists and the furniture shattered against the walls.

 

_"But if you can...please come soon."_

He sat against the wall, barefoot.

To perish unreconciled. To think he had wasted so much time—time he could have spent in healing had been spent tearing down. His manipulative side had taken sour pleasure from her sorrow on his behalf. How wrong he had been.

He would change. Oh, he would change. He was sorry.

No more shields. No more facades. There wasn't any reason to sustain them.

And what reason had there been?

Loki doubled forward and screamed.

He slumped back against the wall, hot tears brimming in his eyes.

In her honor, everything came down.

***

Loki's realization of his mother's wisdom and determination to honor her memory freed him from the prison of his mind. Soon thereafter, Thor freed him from the physical prison.

He needed Loki's help. An event of near-Ragnarok scale had been going on while Loki was incarcerated, and now Thor and Odin stood at odds over how it was to be resolved.  
Thor had brought Jane Foster to Asgard after she became possessed by a weapon of massive power, the Aether, created by the Dark Elves in the ancient days. The Dark Elves had awakened after it seized Jane, and it was their attack that had killed Frigga. They were preparing for a new attack to reclaim the Aether. Odin wanted to fight them on Asgard, but Thor wanted to lure them away and fight them on their former homeworld: a Dark World, uninhabited, a wasteland of black sand and rock.

Svartalfheim.

There, the Aether would be taken from Jane, and Thor would attempt to destroy it. But as Thor was now at odds with Odin, he could not enlist the help of Heimdall to transport them. He needed Loki.

Though taking Thor to his former place of refuge felt twisted and bizarre, Loki agreed. Lady Sif and the Warriors Three assisted them in their escape and they made the harrowing flight to Svartalfheim through the secret path.

Once there, they devised a plan using Loki's illusory powers. He would make it seem as if he had betrayed Thor, which would lure in the enemy. Malekith would begin drawing out the Aether, and then the previously disregarded Thor would have a chance to attack up close.

The plan was enacted, but Thor was unable to destroy the Aether. The monster that had killed Frigga attacked Thor while Loki protected Jane from the Dark Elves. After Loki's fight was finished, he stepped in to aid Thor—and was struck with a realization.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, only took an instant to sink in.

If the Dark Elves' leader had taken the fight to Midgard, he would have to contend with both Thor and the Avengers. Even if Loki stepped off, the team's advantage far outweighed that of the Dark Elves.

So here would he take his leave.

There was unfinished business in Asgard.

At the end of this misadventure, he would be back in prison with no second appeal. Even if Thor plead on his behalf there was no assurance that Odin would listen—or even let Thor free for his part in the treason. No. Deep within his heart, a new ache had begun. It was an ache for reconciliation. Even if he was executed, even if he was locked away, he had to try to settle things with Odin. He had to at least try showing him that he had been wrong, and that where he had been right, there was misperception and humble apology.

Yes. He would return to Asgard and plead his case to the king from the beginning. He was ready, it was now or never, and he had nothing left to lose.

Loki killed the monster attacking Thor in such a way that it seemed to kill him as well. Thor was heartbroken. As he faked his death, Loki told the truth—that he was sorry, so very sorry for everything terrible that had happened, and that he loved his family. He said everything he had wanted to say in case if this truly was the last time he would see Thor alive. When he at last 'died', the brothers were at peace.

Thor and Jane left in pursuit of the Aether. Loki took the form of a guard and returned home.

Odin quickly recognized him in his stolen form, and Loki reassumed his true shape. There was a pause. Loki knelt and bowed his head.

A long silence went by.

“What are you doing, Loki?”

“Father,” he said. “I am asking your forgiveness.”

“You ask too late.” Odin motioned for the guards and Loki rose. With a spell he incapacitated the guards and sealed the doors. He held out a hand, fingers outstretched in desperate parley.

“No. Do with me what you will afterward, but now I must speak with you. I shall lay for you a story of pain and forgiveness that will change your heart—and if not, at least my burden will be eased. I beg you, father, just once, just now, give me ear the way you gave it Thor. If it be your will I shall hereafter be silent and content but now, now, I pray you let me speak!”

Odin's eyes were hard.

Loki dropped to his knees again. “Would the creature of wretched arrogance you thought you knew debase himself so earnestly?" He held out his hands. “I beg of you.”

A long silence. Then, finally: “Speak.”

Loki closed his eyes and exhaled. He took a deep breath and began.

At several points throughout his tale Odin's face darkened, and Loki held up a pleading hand for silence. At the end, Odin said nothing for a long time. “Loki. Is this true?”

“I can say so in no more certain terms, though if I could find words sweeter or deeper drawn I would give them.”

Odin took a slow breath. “Your mother saw something in you,” he said. “You were different from Thor...” his voice weakened and trailed off, and he coughed. “I...I fear I am not long for this Realm. Even Odinsleep cannot keep death at bay forever.” His breathing grew even, and he continued. “I have been blind to so much. Would that it had not taken the end of my life for me to see it. I have been proud, and I have written off my faults beneath self-deception. Only now that I have nothing left to lose do I find the extent of what I squandered.” He coughed, and gestured for him to approach.

Loki obeyed, coming to the edge of the stairs before the throne and then kneeling again.

“No, rise, my son.”

His throat tightened and he rose, as did Odin. Odin began descending the case. “How much blood have I spilled over petty quarrels and fits of rage? And in trying to atone for those sins of violence, how much would have been spilled by my stubborn passivity?” He shook his head, descended the final stair and looked him in the eye.

“And to think that you, a boy, had greater wisdom than a king--” He broke down into a fit of coughing and tipped forward. Loki caught him and knelt. Odin grasped his shoulder. “You were brave when we were cowards. You were level-headed when we were blind with hate. And you gave everything to do what you thought was right. I am proud of you...”

More coughing. He hefted Gungnir, the spear of kings, and pressed the haft against Loki's chest, his good eye shiny with tears. "Perhaps the age of brutish kings has ended. In your wisdom, a new era of prosperity will grow." He smiled slightly. "Forgive me, Loki."

Loki put a hand over his and a tear slid down his cheek. “I do.”

Then the king died. Loki lowered him to the ground and knelt above his body a long time, tears in his eyes and thoughts a scattered whirlwind, parsing through emotions.

When at last he lifted his eyes and blinked away the tears, Gungnir was gripped in his hand. He took a shaky breath and sat back beneath an avalanche of sudden realization. This golden spear—this symbol of kingship, placed in his hand with blessing. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. It wasn't joy he felt. It was the weight of the realm on his shoulders, the echoing laments of Midgardian kings immortalized in verse.  _For within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king keeps death his court...*_  He sighed, whisper magnified by the vastness of the room. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."*

Was he ready?

He closed his eyes. It didn't matter. It was in his heart and soul, and those would have to be enough. He swallowed and his breath caught. He wiped at his eyes. But for now...

For now Odin was dead, Loki had faked his death, and the brother that witnessed his lie was returning.

A knock on the door.

Loki froze. There had been no witnesses. Would they trust him?

No.

He'd been a convicted prisoner only a few days earlier.

He closed his eyes. This was not how he wanted to begin his reign. However, if he wanted to preserve both himself and all of Asgard, it was what must be done.  
Loki cloaked the body of the king and took the form of Odin. He ascended the throne, revived the guards and unblocked the doors. With no memory of what had happened, it took only a moment or so for the dazed guards to re-assume their positions. Loki bid those outside to enter.

A messenger arrived and informed him that Thor had been successful, and was returning. Loki nodded and he left. There wasn't much time. Using his powers, Loki moved Odin's body to a crack between realms.** At the conclusion of official business he would inter it in the tombs. Then he took a breath. He would have to continue the ruse for just a while longer, until he could ease himself back into the good graces of the people.

Nervous butterflies churned inside. Under this disguise he held position not only of king, but of father. Memories flashed back of Odin's words to him—how they had torn him apart, crushed his self-image and left him in despair. Words were powerful; words of a king even more so. But the words of a father carried an even deeper power. One false word could be his brother's undoing.

When Thor arrived, he apologized and said that he was not ready for the throne--and that Loki had been better suited. He offered up Mjolnir and said he would accept any punishment.

Loki made him guardian of the realms, bade him keep his hammer, and imparted the love, pride and affirmation that Odin had been at a loss to express. Thor left at peace with his brother, his father and his situation in life.

“Thank you,” he said.

After he left, Loki re-took his original form. “No...thank you.”

It was silent in the massive room. Perhaps it was built that way to remind the king that even he was dwarfed in the shadow of greater things. For a long time he was alone, alternating between surrealism and crushing reality—then suddenly it felt like a physical weight was lifted.

He took a breath. He had been forgiven, redeemed, vindicated, crowned. A new chapter had begun. The consequences of the old would linger; there was much that still needed to be done. But now, for the first time since his childhood, the horizon was bright with hope.

**Author's Note:**

> So this used to be part of my other chapter, but I figured I should split them up into their own entities they're different movies/to me they have slightly different flavors :)
> 
> The initial dialogue was pulled from the movie, but the dialogue from the *cough* implied scene that I put in anyway (hehe) was mine...I think I got a little Shakespeare-y but that was much the feel of the first movie #Kenneth Branagh #Tom Hiddleston #my Shakespeare boys :3


End file.
